We all start as strangers

In many respects, we grow up being told to avoid strangers. Hilariously, I once went to a pro basketball game and sat next to a young girl and her father. I said hello, and the girl immediately yelled, "Stranger danger!" As kids, this might be the safe thing to do. But as adults... is it? The easy answer to avoid awkward moments: no.

But when does a stranger stop being a stranger?

As we age, it seems increasingly challenging to meet new people. Maybe it’s because of our routines, our obligations, or a lack of opportunities for connection. Whatever the reason, forming new friendships often feels like a daunting task.

Recently, I hiked the O Circuit in Torres del Paine, nestled in Chilean Patagonia. We started as a group of three: my wife, a friend, and me. On the first day, we passed a woman hiking alone. A stranger. Casual pleasantries were exchanged—“How beautiful is this?” or “What a nice spot to relax.” And then we continued on our way.

At our first campsite, we set up, kept to ourselves, and rested. I overheard three Dutch hikers chatting and assumed they were long-time friends. But I later learned that two of them had met the third just six hours earlier.

On Day 2, we left early, exchanging polite "hellos" or "holas" with other hikers. Yet, they were still strangers. Two women passed us on the trail, strangers too—until we discovered they lived less than 30 minutes from us back home. Maybe not strangers anymore?

That evening, we reached the next campsite and headed straight to the bar for well-earned burgers and beers. Another hiker, a Dutch man, approached our table and asked if he could join us. He introduced himself, and we chatted about the hike, his travels, and our lives. Just like that, he was no longer a stranger—because he was willing to start the conversation.

We noticed a group of six Venezuelans, a man from Turkey, and several hikers from Canada and the U.S. At first, they were all strangers. But with a comment here, an introduction there, and shared meals, the invisible walls separating us began to crumble.

By the time we reached our third campsite—a small, isolated spot with few amenities—those walls were gone. Conversations turned into laughter, shared stories, and camaraderie.

The Dutch hikers now had names, careers, and travel plans. The Venezuelans? One was a runner; another was hiking with his older brother. One had German heritage, and they all spoke English from attending the same school. The solo hiker we passed on Day 1 turned out to be from a city I’d lived in for ten years, just minutes from one of my former neighborhoods. And those two women from the trail? Engineers—one lived near us, and the other had a sister who’d just moved to our city.

The fog of unfamiliarity gave way to a web of connection.

The next day was grueling—rain-soaked and arduous. It was the epitome of "Type 2 fun." I cursed a lot. Some of those former strangers passed me, cheering us on. A few paused at the top of the pass to take celebratory shots—a moment they later called a true bonding experience.

My friend joked that we had "trauma-bonded," and he wasn’t wrong. At the next campsite, soaking wet and exhausted, those once-strangers bought us beers, helped us locate the showers, and shared their pizza. I didn’t care that the beer was $7—I bought rounds for everyone I could find. So did others.

At some point, we stopped being strangers.

The trek continued for everyone except our original group of three. That morning, we lingered with the group as if we’d been lifelong friends, hugging, exchanging contact information, and saying bittersweet goodbyes. Later, we learned they missed us too.

Over the next few days, we met more strangers—some fleeting, others sharing meals and stories about the hike.

On our last day, waiting for the bus, we heard a commotion. The group we’d parted with just days earlier had arrived at the welcome center. The Venezuelans, the Americans, the Dutch, the Canadians, the Italian—we were together again. Hugs were exchanged. Stories were shared. These people no longer felt like strangers. They felt like friends.

That evening, at dinner, there were even more hugs, laughter, beers, and plans to meet again. More connections, more friendships.

In just eight days, 31 strangers became friends.

As adults, we shouldn’t be afraid to introduce ourselves, to share, to help, to endure a little awkwardness or discomfort. The risk is worth the reward.

We all start as strangers, but the journey is so much better as friends.